


of withered dreams

by amelioratedays



Category: GOT7
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bnior, M/M, Markjin, Romance, Slice of Life, markson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2801039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amelioratedays/pseuds/amelioratedays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jinyoung is dead drunk one night, Mark takes it in his kind character to lug the 'stranger' home. For lonely nights and nostalgic mornings, this is a story of forgotten childhoods, surreal neverlands, white lies, black truths and of withered dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

__

  

 

__

 

 

 


	2. of clocks and lost time

//01//  
The first time they meet, Jinyoung is nowhere close to sober. Tie undone and hair messily tousled, Mark deems it unsightly as he drags the other off the front steps of the bar. “I’m too nice to be real,” he reassures himself half an hour later when carrying the newfound stranger up the stairs. He’s tripping for the sixth time when Jackson finally decides to open their apartment door. “What’s all this ruckus?” The other asks and Mark only responds with a sheepish grin.   
  
Jinyoung’s resting on Marks bed when the clock strikes three in the morning. With his room occupied, Mark opts to cuddle into Jackson’s bed instead of the living room sofa. Jackson glides his finger across the older male’s wrist as he asks, “Your friend?” Mark smiles and shakes his head, “I know him but he doesn’t know me.”   
  
“A little stalker-ish, don’t you think so?”   
  
“Nope,” Mark refutes.   
  
“Really?” Jackson asks, eyebrows raising a bit too high.   
  
“Really,” He asserts, covering the others eyes with the palm of his hand. Pulling the younger closer to him, Mark mutters into the autumn air; “He’s just never noticed me.” Jackson is still deciding whether this is the start of an illegal or romantic infatuation when Mark drifts off into sleep. For once, he’s not counting sheep on the ceiling and Jackson wonders whether it’s because Mark is still holding his hand.   
  
Whether it’s because, for once, Mark isn’t the first one to let go.   
  
Mark wakes up first, October wind being a bit too chilly for his liking. Jackson is still snuggled within the blankets and Mark decides to let him be, dragging himself up half dazed. He wakes up a bit when bare feet touch upon wooden floorboards, sending a slight shiver up his spine. It’s 6:30 a.m. and Mark is sure that the sun isn’t awake either, hiding behind the clouds. It’s a hazy morning and he wonders if Jinyoung needs another layer of blankets. Or maybe a cup of tea, because he’s pretty sure there’s still a box of ginseng tea left in the kitchen cabinet.   
  
6:45 a.m. and Mark is waiting for the water to boil when Jinyoung wakes up. He watches as the ceiling focuses in from a blear. There are only two thoughts in his head at the moment; (1) this was not his house and (2) thank the gods that he didn’t work on Saturdays. Stumbling out of his newfound habitat, Jinyoung finds someone in the kitchen, auburn hair falling in front of bistre eyes. For a moment, Jinyoung thinks he’s seen such eyes before—but only for a moment, and he remember that he’s living in Korea; where almost everyone has the same coloured eyes. Clearing his throat, Jinyoung lets out a sore “Hello.”   
  
Mark looks back, eyes widening with slight astonishment before reciprocating a similar “Hey.”   
  
The kettle sounds, waking up the house as the clock hits 7:09 a.m.   
  
Jackson throws his blanket above his head and hopes that Jinyoung never falls in the depths of Mark’s soul.   
  
7:20 a.m. and Jackson stands by the kitchen stove, spatula in hand as he waits for the eggs to be cooked. Mark and Jinyoung sit at the dinner table, two cups of ginseng tea placed above the wooden surface. Jinyoung says “thank you” for the seventh time and Jackson frowns when Mark laughs for the tenth time. There’s really nothing funny enough to laugh at, eggs overcooked and sausages burnt.   
  
“I’m sorry I can’t cook.” He mutters, placing the dishes on the table.   
  
“It’s okay, I’m not that good either.” Jinyoung replies, eating well albeit the fact that everything tasted like charcoal. Mark doesn’t speak—as usual—and proceeds to dissect his breakfast. Jackson buries his head into his own plate. 7:36 a.m. and there’s only the clinking of cutlery upon ceramic dishes to be heard.   
  
The one to break the silence is, surprisingly, Mark and Jackson ends up dropping his fork.   
  
“We all went to the same college, you know?” Mark says, with a smile too bright for such a dim morning.   
  
“Really?” Jinyoung asks, handing Jackson back his fork.   
  
“Yup, we were all in the arts department.” He says with a grin, not failing to catch the faltering of the other’s smile.   
  
“I’m a designer now.” He continues, “Jackson produces music; and you?”   
  
Jinyoung tries to smile, forcefully pinning the corners of his lips in place as he responds with what he hopes is a carefree tone. “I sell insurance.”   
  
7:50 a.m. and Mark is talking of campuses, hallways, and chalkboards that Jinyoung doesn’t want to remember. Youth seems to have settled their way into Mark’s eyes, upturning into crescent moons. “Too warm,” Jackson thinks and he watches at how Jinyoung’s forehead crinkles instead of the corners of his eyes.


	3. of memories and roommates

//02//  
Jinyoung leaves after an exchange of phone numbers and empty promises. It’s 8:02 and he’s pretty sure the Autumn wind is too chilly for his liking, cold air enveloping his brain—he feels his headache worsen. There’s barely anyone on the streets Saturday morning and he tries to stop himself from reminiscing mornings where he ran down the streets chasing after a bus. Tries to stop himself from remembering the times where dreams and passions didn’t run into dead ends.   
  
Fallen leaves upon grey cement, Jinyoung watches as they crumble under his footsteps.   
  
He gets home an hour later, knees shaky and mind full of regrets. His hands are numb and with frozen fingers, he attempts to open the door. Jaebum opens it when he’s still fumbling with his keys a minute later, warms hands enveloping his own as he’s pulled into the apartment. He’s too tired to think despite having just woke up two hours ago and Jinyoung nudges into the nook of Jaebum’s neck. Resting on the other’s shoulder, Jaebum half pulls, half carries the other to the living room sofa.   
  
They both collapse, falling back onto the leather couch—Jaebum thinks of quicksand for a moment and sinks further. Jinyoung’s hands are still cold and Jaebum doesn’t let go, tracing patterns in the other’s palm as he asks;   
  
“You didn’t come home yesterday.”   
  
“I had to meet with a client,” Jinyoung responds quietly, and he knows that Jaebum knows. That Jaebum knows that he knows Jaebum knows—that there’s still half a sentence left unsaid. So Jaebum waits, fingers still lingering on the other’s skin, for Jinyoung to give in.   
  
And so he does, a while later. There’s a hitch of breath before he starts talking again, “I had too much to drink and someone took me in.” He continues, voice a bit softer, “Turns out we all went to the same college—you, me, him, and his roommate.”   
  
“He’s a designer, you know? And his friend is a musician.” Jinyoung lifts his hands, fingers touching upon the other’s heart; “You’re a writer.” Jaebum watches as the younger male pulls away, lying back down on the sofa.   
  
It doesn’t take much for Jaebum to read between the lines, twelve years of being best friends isn’t just for show. So he tilts forward, arms embracing the younger. Jinyoung speaks again, voice hoarse and faint. “I guess I’m really bad at selling insurance.”   
  
“It’s okay.” Jaebum states, “I can take care of you.”   
  
And there they stay, both resting upon the leather sofa—breath in synch as the clock ticks away.   
  
Jinyoung falls asleep and wakes up still in Jaebum’s arms. Rubbing his eyes slowly, he looked up at the other, “Don’t you have deadlines to meet?” The other hummed in response, drumming his fingers on Jinyoung’s chest as he spoke. “Are you feeling any better?”   
  
“You’re not answering my question, you know?” Jinyoung stated.   
  
“I know.”   
  
“Then answer me.”   
  
“Answer me first.” Jaebum mutters while staring off into the ceiling, finding hidden clouds.   
  
“But I asked first!” Jinyoung retaliates.   
  
He never gets his answer, but after spending several hours drafting up presentations and proposals, Jinyoung walks out of his room to see Jaebum rushing manuscripts—sipping on what might be his sixth cup of caffeinated poison. It’s an heart attack waiting to happen and Jinyoung faintly remembers the days where Jaebum wrote without deadlines and restrictions. Just one sentence a day, waiting until he finds the perfect way to word his scattered thoughts. Where he’d be sitting on the dormitory floor--strumming his guitar, softly humming whilst the older male laid on the bed, writing away in one of his many notebooks.   
  
He sorts them by emotions, each book designated a certain “feel.” The blue leather bound book was for rainy days, where he’d write sentences on unlined paper—words crooked and arrhythmic. The thin white paperback was for early mornings, where everything was calm and collected. Jinyoung remembers more than once of days he woke up to find the other sitting down at the dining table, cursive letters appearing onto orderly lines while Jaebum waited for the water to boil.   
  
But four years later, and his guitar is stashed in the closet. Jaebum keeps his notebooks locked up in his cabinet, writing only on his laptop. Tapping keys until his eyes strained and throat dried. Jinyoung is the same, except he’s not writing about surreal dreams and aromantic plot lines—he’s writing about budgets, payments, inclusions, and exclusions. Jaebum marks his deadlines on his calendar in red, Jinyoung tallies his clients in purple. Jaebum’s counting down, Jinyoung’s counting up.   
  
There’s not enough time to reminisce and Jinyoung forces his attention back to his monitor, eyes scanning the lists of possible clients. The glare of the screen burns his eyes—burns his soul.


	4. of broken hearts and selfish desires

//03//  
The next time he sees Jackson, the other is pulling him into the pouring rain—grip on his wrist too tight, the gaze in his eyes too burdensome. “Let go,” Jinyoung says, gently rubbing his wrist when the other releases his grip.

 

“You’re welcome.” Jackson says, reminding the other that there was a need for a thank you. But there’s no response from Jinyoung, who only turns around to re-enter the restaurant. Jackson’s pulling him again and Jinyoung’s sure that the red mark around his wrist will darken into a mauve bruise. He tries to shake off the other’s grip and fails, falling into the other’s hold.

 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jackson grits through his teeth.

 

“Doing my job.” He replies, all too nonchalantly.

 

“Your job is to let old men grope all over you?” Jackson says, tone too menacing as something in his heart falls with a thud, shattered memories flashing through his mind.

 

Jinyoung responds with a; “It doesn’t have anything to do with you,” and Jackson can’t help but notice how there’s pain in the other’s eyes. Jinyoung’s calling help whilst drowning, voice unheard, sound waves dissipating in water. He doesn’t mean what he says, doesn’t want what he allows to happen. Jackson knows.

 

So he punches him, hard. Jinyoung falls back on hard asphalt, rain falling into his eyes, nose, mouth, heart. “Where the fuck is your pride?! Life isn’t some fucking primetime idol drama where all you run into are dead ends!” Jackson’s voice is resonating through his brain, and Jinyoung knows—knows that life has so many roads and so little dead ends. But there are so many cliffs and broken bridges. He doesn’t need pride, doesn’t need morals, doesn’t need dreams. All Jinyoung wants is a home where he doesn’t have to worry about rental deadlines. A table where there’s always food on the table and not shelves and shelves of instant noodles. He isn’t sure whether the skies are crying, whether Jackson is crying, or whether he is crying.

 

Contract still unsigned and quota still unmet, Jinyoung crawls his way back into the restaurant muttering apologies and pleas. He feels a rough hand run through his wet hair and for the first time, he doesn’t pull away. He’s in the bathroom stall moments later, choking himself to tears as he suppresses the urge to vomit. The man’s hands grab onto his hair, holding Jinyoung’s head firm as he thrusts his member into the young man’s mouth. It hits the back of his throat too many times  _(he can’t breathe)_  and when the older man finally pulls out, he’s still gasping for air.

 

It doesn’t come.

He’s breathing in poison.

 

He’s tired, too tired to think, too tired to move. The old man was long gone now and Jinyoung lets himself fall onto the floor, pulling out his phone and tapping familiar digits. Jaebum comes in no time, face flushed and out of breath. Jackson’s behind him, eyes too dark—too cold. He feels himself being pulled up, it’s the smell of Jaebum’s cologne, and a damp towel falls onto his face. Warm water washing away putrid stains, touches gentle and cautious. He buries himself into Jaebum’s chest and lets him carry him outside. It’s still raining, cold droplets descending from the heavens. Jackson drives them home, thoughts overwhelming him as the window wipers moved from side to side. He catches Jaebum in the rear mirror, hugging onto the younger boy who looked soullessly out the window. There’s nothing but black outside, not a single star in the night sky. There’s nothing but black inside, kohl orbs reflecting noir souls.  _Pitter patter_  goes the rain droplets on the glass window.   _Pitter patter_ goes Jaebum’s heart.

 

Jinyoung drowns himself in the shower, it’s raining inside now, while Jackson sits in the living room. Jaebum’s ear perk up at mutters of, “I told him not to” and “Why did it turn out to this.” He hands him a coffee and settles down next to him; “I’m Im Jaebum.”

 

“Jackson.” He replies, voice hoarse and cracking.

 

“Jinyoung’s..” Jaebum begins, “..kind of broken.”

 

“...”

 

“He’s been through a lot, and still isn’t in the best state. So I hope—”

 

It gets Jackson angry, “So he’s broken and you let him go around breaking himself?”, because everyone’s broken on the inside. But that doesn’t mean anything.

 

“No.” Jaebum refutes, “Jinyoung doesn’t do anything like he did tonight—never did, never thought he would.”

 

“So.” Jackson really doesn’t get what point the other was trying to establish.

 

Jaebum takes an inhale before talking again, eyes colder than ever; “I meant that whatever you said to him shouldn’t have been said.” He continued, “Not everyone is tough enough to take reality, Jinyoung’s already struggling. Don’t push him over the cliff he’s trying to climb up.”

 

Jaebum doesn’t understand and Jaebum doesn’t expect him to—doesn’t want him too. It’s okay because he understands Jinyoung, and there’s really no need for anyone else to intrude upon the world they’ve created. It’s selfish and his heart’s rotten, but he wants to keep Jinyoung to himself. Broken or not.

 

Jackson doesn’t realize until Mark tells him, brows furrowing when he relays his memories. He’s never been one for keeping secrets and neither has Mark been one to gossip. The creases between the elder’s eyes deepen and Jackson’s heart drops. Everyone’s a bit broken on the inside and Jackson isn’t sure if Jaebum is patching Jinyoung up or breaking him into pieces.

 

Mark decides, it’s a bit of both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm really not sure about this chapter. Super self-conscious about it even, since I wasn't that satisfied with how it turned out and how it deviated with what I had in mind. :/ But I hope it's adequate.


	5. of empty living rooms and butterflies

//04//  
Jinyoung wakes up to find Jaebum by his bed, cardigan hanging loose around his shoulders. The elder is fast asleep, taking deep breaths as his back rises and falls. Jinyoung tries to breathe as well, expanding and collapsing his ribcage, but it hurts. He’s not rising nor falling, simply motionless, stuck in time. He’s removing his blanket off himself when Jaebum stirs, eyes slowly opening to look up at him. Memories flood his head and Jinyoung’s frozen again.

“Jaebum-ah.” Jinyoung starts, throat dry and voice weak.

“Hmm,” the other hums.

“It’s only the first step that hurts.”

Jaebum isn’t sure if he wants to pull Jinyoung onto safe ground or if he wants to jump off with him together. There’s too many storm clouds around his heart and he wants to crack a smile and say, “You jump, I jump, remember?”

But he doesn’t.

Because he remembers that Jinyoung’s been holding onto the edge of this cliff for far too long, hands slipping off the brink. Remembers that if he lets go, they’d be flying without shackles just to break into nothing upon the ground below. And Jinyoung doesn’t need any more breaking. Jinyoung finds comfort in himself, but he’s holding knives at both their throats.

“But you’re walking down the wrong road,” Jaebum whispers, voice soft and sonorous. It’s almost ballad-esque but Jaebum feels horrible. There are demons eating at his heart and he hates himself because he knows that if the other wanted to walk to the ends of the earth, he’d let him. They’d be falling off the edge together, hand in hand. Hates himself because he knows Jackson’s not pushing him off at all—he’s pulling him away.

Jinyoung doesn’t respond and Jaebum pulls him in for an embrace, blanket and all. “Don’t do this,” he mumbles into the other’s ear. “Promise me.” He’s holding Jinyoung too tight, crushing ribs and deflating lungs. Jinyoung never gives him his promise and Jaebum lets him go.

He’s back to writing manuscripts and Jinyoung’s still typing up contracts. Jinyoung makes more sales now, and they finally live off something other than instant noodles. There’s food on the table and they’re finally not three months late on rent. It’s horrible—horrible—and Jaebum feels so fucking useless. Jinyoung doesn’t come home on certain nights and all Jaebum intakes are coffee and sleeping pills. He can’t stay awake; he can’t fall asleep. He’s a fucking mess and the food he cooks ends up in the trash. Everything’s filthy and he’s wants to throw everything in chlorine.

  
He’s loving in all the wrong ways, accepting for all the wrong things.

 

Mark finds Jinyoung three and a half weeks later, and it’s almost déjà vu. Tie undone and hair tousled, he fends off the guy who’s been placing his hand on the younger male’s thigh for the fifth time. Grabbing contracts and briefcases, Mark pulls Jinyoung out of the pub. He’s carrying Jinyoung up the same step of stairs, wooden floorboards creaking on the third and seventh step. Jackson opens the door again and Mark throws him the same sheepish smile. “Jia Er,” He says in accented mandarin.

They settle Jinyoung onto Mark’s bed, lamp light flickering its way on the younger’s facial features. The dark circles under his eyes accentuate alongside the hollows of his cheeks. Jackson can’t help but think that the other looks like he’s dying—perishing. Midnight wind howling, Mark pulls Jackson away, settling next door. He’s in Jackson’s bed again, snuggled under thick blankets as air seeped in through the cracks of the windowsill.

“Wang Jia Er.”

“Duan Yi En,” Jackson replies in equally accented Chinese.

“He wasn’t like this back then, you know.” Mark says while burying himself further in the blanket.

“I thought he didn’t know you before.”

“But I said I knew him,” Mark replied, habitual pout forming on his face.

Jackson laughs and pulls on his side of the blankets, “Still a bit too stalkerish.”

Mark rolled his eyes and nudged Jackson on his side, “We talked once.” Jackson hums in turn and Mark continues, “When I was going to give up on everything, I met him.” The sides of his lips upturn and Jackson thinks that his eyes looked too much like stars. “He told me that dreams are butterflies. That you’d have to be the one to catch them even if they fly away. That even after you catch them, it’s your duty to keep them alive.”

Jackson turns into the crook of Mark’s neck and speaks, breath spilling on Mark’s skin. “So is he your knight in shining armour?” Mark smiles and twirls his fingers under the blankets, “白馬王子？我像是白雪公主嗎？” (Prince Charming? Do I look like Snow White to you?) Jackson nods and cracks a grin, “Just dye your hair back to black.” He lets out a yelp as Mark pinches at his sides.

There are giggles and shouts, muffled screams and hushed whispers; walls too thin to give anyone privacy. And so Jinyoung wakes up to small voices, talking of dreams and butterflies. He remembers now, and it finally clicks why he deems Marks eyes so familiar. The first time he’d seen them, they were so void—so devastated. But now void has settled in his eyes instead, Mark’s eyes simply too bright to look at.

Jinyoung thinks he’s murdered his butterflies.  
Tattered wings and broken legs.


	6. of forgotten words and conversations long overdue

//05//  
Mark and Jackson’s laughter suffocates him and he’s stumbling down wooden stairs onto grey asphalt. Half conscious, half drunk, he’s stumbling home to Jaebum’s arms. The older holds him tight; too tight and he feels his ribs cracking. His butterflies are dead, lifeless as they lay on the bottom of the glass jar. The sight of it hurts Jinyoung’s eyes, turns them red, and he grabs at the jar. He throws it at the floor, letting the shards of glass fly across wooden floor boards. It’s an array of chaos and the shards cut him across the cheek, cuts Jaebum in the neck.  
  
“I’m a horrible person.” Jinyoung cries out, self abasement rolling off his tongue as he continues, “I just wanted a home, something stable—unchanged. But I’m not happy; I’m miserable. I murdered all my butterflies but I want them back.” He’s speaking between sobs and Jaebum holds him, letting tears soak his shirt. Seep into his bones. It’s like they’re 24 again, hidden from the world as Jinyoung cries his soul out after his parent’s funeral procession. Everyone’s gone and Jinyoung finally cracks, after all the pity filled condolences and half hearted reassurances. Jaebum holds him close, whispering in his ear; “I’m still here.”  
  
He takes him in, accepts him for everything—debt in tow—and nurses his depression back to a melancholic smile. Jaebum ends up selling his car, taking out two loans, and writing about plotlines he loathes. It takes three years to pay back everything, but Jaebum thinks it’s worth it, to transfer boulders from the younger’s shoulder onto his own.  
  
But it’s not worth it now.  
Not when they’re both crumbling.  
  
Jinyoung’s not happy. Jaebum’s not happy. They’re both miserable, selling themselves—body and soul for things that weren’t their dreams. Sacrificing themselves for meals they throw back up.  
  
“I’m sorry, Jinyoung-ah.” Jaebum whispers into Jinyoung’s hair, voice cracking at the other’s name. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” And all he can do is apologize because he’s a horrible hyung, rotten to the core because he’s not pulling the other up. He’s pulling them both down, falling onto a ground of shattered glass.  
  
They fall asleep and wake up in each other’s arms, lying in the middle of the living room with crusted tears on their cheeks. The sun has yet to rise and Jaebum lets go of the younger, finally, to stare at the ceiling. “Sometimes people aren’t as happy as they should be.” He starts.  
  
“I’m miserable, pathetic even. Because I should be happy with what I have. My job is my dream and I still have you by my side.” He closes his eyes and Jinyoung wants to trace the constellations above the elder’s left eyelid, “But I hate everything, and I don’t even know if I like writing anymore. I hate how I’m writing with shackles on my soul, the only thing in mind being the paycheque at the end of the month. Hate how I’m holding you all broken and no smiles.”  
  
Jinyoung wants to refute, mouth opening to say “No.” But Jaebum stops him, turns to look him in the eye, “How the only way I can keep you by my side is by keeping you in debt to me.”  
  
“Don’t try to pay me back anymore, Jinyoung-ah.  
You don’t owe me anything.”  
  
  
  
  
Jaebum moves out a week later, without notice. Jinyoung comes home one day to find empty shelves, empty closets, empty desks, empty souls.  
  
There’s no letter on the kitchen table, no message in his voicemail.  
Nothing.  
Park Jinyoung,  
You don’t owe me anything.  
  
Im Jaebum disappears without a sound and Jinyoung goes insane, visiting houses and hotels, calling numbers that no longer exist. Jinyoung’s not the only one looking for him, and Jaebum’s editor storms up one day—waving resignation letters and demanding manuscripts. He’s all questions and Jinyoung doesn’t have answers. Life is all problems and Jinyoung doesn’t have solutions.  
  
He doesn’t find a need for stable lives and warm food anymore; no one at the table to feed. The emptiness is necessary, he tells himself. It pulls him back together—lets him push away unwanted hands and lingering gazes. It brings him back on shore where there’s no need to sit with clients inebriated at whimsical hours at night. He spends it indoors instead, tracing pieces of Jaebum where he last remembered them. He buys new notebooks, new cups, new coffeepots and places them all back where they belong. He’s marking pretend deadlines on the calendar and counts down to days where he’ll go the on bus vacations that the elder use to take.  
  
It’s pathetic, he thinks. How even when Im Jaebum disappears, he’s still the one to patch Park Jinyoung back together. You don’t owe me anything, he remembers. But all he wants to say is that I owe you everything when he unearths the dust ridden guitar from the back of his closet, fingers gliding over metal strings. It’s all out of tune, so foreign but so familiar as his fingers stumble to recall chords and melodies. Vocal chords straining to recall notes and harmonies.  
  
It’s the beginning of winter, trees barren and desolate. The wind howls through the city as everything finds its own end—its own resting point. He’s still drafting contracts and sifting through clients, clock ticking softly as his lunch break approaches. It’s 3:12 p.m. and Jinyoung catches a glimpse of a butterfly out the window; limp wings and crooked legs.  
  
  
  
  
“We rise to fall down.”  
  
“You mean we fall to get back up again.”  
  
“....”  
  
“Life has it’s broken bridges, but there’s always enough lumber to mend your pathway.”  
  
“Have you heard about deforestation, Im Jaebum?”  
  
“Have you heard about metaphors, Park Jinyoung?”  
  
  
  
“Dreams are like butterflies, you have to catch them. You can’t just stand there waiting for them to fly into your own hands.”  
  
“I’m not. I’ve been trying to catch the same butterflies for all these years—only to see that my net is broken and my knees are weary.”  
  
“Because it’s not important whether you’ve caught them or not.”  
  
“...”  
  
“It just matters that you keep them alive; whether they’re fluttering past your fingertips or whether they’re settled inside your glass jar.”  
  
“I—”  
  
“Don’t give up.”  
  
  
  
“Yi En.”  
  
“Jia Er.”  
  
“I’m scared.”  
  
“We all are.”  
  
“How much longer before we stop waiting for chances?”  
  
“A lifetime, maybe.”


	7. of superheroes and lost butterflies

//06//

Mark is stubborn, everyone around him has always known. He’s hard-headed and persistent; fighting for everything he wants. So when he shows up outside of Jinyoung’s workplace the fifth week in a row, Jinyoung’s pretty sure that he can’t just “wait” for the other’s advances to fade. So here he was, briefcase in tow as he walked towards the red head loitering on company grounds.

 

“Don’t you have a job to attend?” He says, voice hostile and cold.

 

“I work at home.” He doesn’t seem to faze the elder and Mark’s too warm, melting his daggers of ice.

 

“Then go home and work, instead of walking around mindlessly.”

 

“I’m waiting for you.”

 

“Well, I’m here now.”

 

“Do you want coffee?” Mark asks abruptly, grinning widely at Jinyoung.

 

“...”

 

It’s a bit more than awkward, well on his side only since Mark doesn’t seem to understand the concept of “awkward.” They’re sitting in the window booth of some cafe that Mark exclaims to have “fantastic coffee” and Jinyoung ends up ordering tea. He hasn’t had coffee since Jaebum left, pounds and pounds of unopened coffee filling his cabinet. He tries not to think of early mornings and how Jaebum starts it off by sifting through his coffee collection. He tries, really does, but it’s futile when Mark is in front of him talking about the owner collects coffee around the world. How he sells some of his designs to the owner, because the other was rich enough to waste money on exquisite coffee, tea leaves, and his art.

 

There’s some more self-deprecating humour and Jinyoung stops the other from talking. He’s taken over Jaebum’s ice cold eyes, glancing at the other as he lets out a:

 

“We’re not really close, you know.”

 

“I wanted to make friends.” Mark replies, lips jutting out in a pout.

 

Jinyoung frowns, downing the last bit of his tea, hot liquid burning his tongue. “I’m not one for friends.” He states, grabbing his coat and briefcase (remembering how his best friend of twelve years disappeared into thin air) before heading towards the door. Mark’s still pouting when he watches Jinyoung cross the street through glass windows, absentmindedly stirring his cup of coffee.

 

“You’re not one for friends. And I’m not one to give up.” He mutters.

 

Mark doesn’t know how to take a hint, Jinyoung discovers. (And to call his hostility a subtle hint was an understatement.) The older male’s standing with two paper cups in his hand and calls out his name just as Jinyoung tries to stealthily turn left. _Well, fuck._ He decides.

 

“I’m busy.” He lets out as the redheaded  male handed him his cup of tea.

 

“Doing what?”

 

“I have to meet a client.” Jinyoung states flatly, eyes catching the small frown Mark lets out.

 

“I’ll go with you.”

 

“Suit yourself.”

 

It’s pathetic, Jinyoung knows, how he has to prove to others—to himself—that he’s recuperating. That he’s not letting himself wallow in a swamp of self depreciation and self mutilation. It ridiculous, because he needs all the validation and reassurance from others for himself to move on, move up. It annoys him and he kicks at the scattered rocks on the streets, gravel scuffing the soles of his loafers. The pebbles don’t go far and he hears the sounds of Mark’s sneakers scratching against the cement pavement besides him.

 

Mark is horribly out of place when they arrive, bright red hair and torn jeans clashing with suits and ties. He doesn’t seem to mind though, settling in his seat (all the way in the back because the younger insisted) while Jinyoung sits in the front, preparing contracts and brochures. He spends an hour talking about “what if’s” and “reassurance”, pulling out seven different portfolios of different types of insurance. His mouth goes dry from talking and all Jinyoung really wants is to gulp down the water in front of him. But he can’t, not when he’s barely meeting quotas and his supervisor is threatening to push him off rooftops. Not when Mark is staring at the back of his head and he’s prying his client’s hands off of his. It takes fifteen more minutes of talking before he succeeds in selling a plan—one for work safety—and the moment the overweight man across from him finishes signing his name on the dotted line, Jinyoung’s pulled back into his seat. Mark packs up for him, throwing folders into his briefcase and pulling him out of the restaurant. Jinyoung’s tripping over stone steps, falling onto Mark’s back.

 

“No wonder you’re best friends with Jackson,” Jinyoung scoffs, rubbing his wrists and remembering how he was stumbling on steps a few months ago.

 

“That’s because we’re both superheroes.” Mark states.

 

“What?”

 

“Saving damsels in distress.”

 

“I’m not a damsel.” He refutes, fixing the clasp on his briefcase.

 

“But you’re distressed.”

 

“I’m not.” He lies while Mark fixes his tie for him, lips tight in concentration.

 

“I’ll find you your butterflies.” Mark replies to his non-existent question with a smile so bright that Jinyoung doesn’t bear to tell him that they’re all dead.

 

Gone.

 

Murdered.

 


	8. of wandering youths and ocean foam

//07//

When Mark tells him that he’s going to find him his butterflies, Jinyoung doesn’t expect to come out of his company building to find the other male standing with a jar filled with a cascade of paper butterflies in his arms. Mark is always someone who turns his abstract thoughts into reality, and Jinyoung doesn’t know whether he’s envious or spiteful that dreams and reality coexist for the older male. He gives off a bitter smile before he looks up at Mark walking towards him.

 

“I found you butterflies.” He states, tapping the glass jar as he lifted it to Jinyoung.

 

“What makes you think they’re mine?” He questions.

 

“I made them for you, so of course they’re yours.”

 

“No, they aren’t. You made them.” Jinyoung says, “They’re yours.”

 

Mark doesn’t seem to hear his response, more focused on passing the jar into his hands in the end. “You can’t keep dwelling on what you’ve lost and never accept what’s new.” He says. “I made them for you.” He repeats. The weight of the glass jar sits on Jinyoung’s palm, warmth of the glass transferring to his cold hands.

 

 “Let’s go.” He says and Jinyoung swallows back his “Where to.”

 

It’s always the same café, as they settle down on the window seats on the left corner. (But since when had these seats felt like ‘their’s’?) Jinyoung places the jar of paper butterflies upon the wooden table, wondering whether they’d be blown away by the autumn wind. Would they land upon water and slowly dissolve, or fall upon fire to burn into ashes. He looks up at Mark, the red of his hair too much like fire—scalding him if he’s ever too close.

 

This place still reminds him of Jaebum, and how he’s missing—gone like his butterflies— replaced by the manuscripts hidden underneath his bed. He found them one drunken night, though he felt more wide awake than ever. He reads about mindless wanders and Jinyoung forgoes sleep for the rest of week following the protagonist’s wanderlust desires and spontaneous travels. He finishes it on a Tuesday morning, eyes bloodshot and voice gone as he reaches the final page. The boy settles himself into the ocean, lungs filling with salt and brine and sea foam. He doesn’t go back home.

 

Jinyoung thinks Jaebum isn’t going to come back home either.

It fills his lungs with the ocean and he can’t breathe.

No air.

Everything is carbon dioxide.

 

He’s spacing out again, mindlessly staring out the window when Mark returns with their drinks. He puts them down on the table with a thud, bringing Jinyoung back to reality and away from flower-filled roads. Jinyoung settles his head on his arms, vision blurring as he squints. Everything blurs into one until it makes his head hurt. Mark doesn’t question his actions, quietly sipping his coffee while gazing at the younger male.

 

For once, it’s Jinyoung who breaks the silence.

 

“I don’t want your butterflies.” He says. “Mine are already dead.”

 

Mark takes another gulp of his latte.

 

“I want Jaebum. Bring me back Jaebum before he dies too.”

 

The coffee scalds his tongue and Mark loses his senses. Everything’s painful before it fades into a numb. He can’t feel anything.

 

There’s still the stinging of damaged nerves when they leave the coffee shop, breathes turning into vapours as Mark bids Jinyoung farewell. The brunette leaves with his jar of paper butterflies in tow; they flutter slightly as he walks. They’ll cause a hurricane on the other side of the Earth soon. Mark is pretty sure of it.

 

Maybe the hurricane will bring Jaebum back home, Mark thinks. That way he won’t have to go out to find him. He doesn’t even know anything about Jinyoung’s roommate except that his eyes are cold as ice. (And that Jinyoung values him over dreams—which shouldn’t be bothering him as much as it is.)

 

When he tells Jackson later in the day, the younger male simply frowned, tucking his chin into the pillow he was hugging. “Jaebum left?” He asked quietly. “Apparently so,” Mark replied while drying the dishes. The Hong Kong male’s frown deepened, voice muffled as he spoke into the pillow. “He didn’t seem like the type.”

 

“What type did he seem like then?”

 

“The type that would never leave.”

 

“Clingy?” Mark questioned.

 

“No,” Jackson paused, racking his brain for the right words. “Just protective.” He said after a minute or so. “Like the guardian angel type, you know?” Mark doesn’t answer, focusing on placing the dishes neatly in the cupboard. And after stacking clean dishes one upon the other, he walks back into the living room to sit next to Jackson. He picks up a pillow as well, resting it on his lap.

 

“Sometimes your angels are your downfall.” Mark mutters to himself.

 

“Hmm?” Jackson hums, looking at him in confusion.

 

“Nothing,” he responds, pulling at the loose threads of the pillow. “Nothing.” He repeats.


	9. of dreams of dreams of dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i'm horrible.....

//08//

Mark doesn’t know a thing about Im Jaebum. So it’s obvious that his first step starts on the World Wide Web. And so he sits on their living room couch with his laptop in front of him. Google is your best friend, he thinks as he taps away at his keyboard expecting to find a mix of Facebook profiles and if he was lucky a LinkedIn profile. But twenty seconds later and Mark finds out that Im Jaebum is a writer—not overtly famous but still famous enough to have a generous fanbase and his own Wikipedia page. Mark scans it over while humming mindless tunes when he feels a weight on his left shoulder. He turns his head to find Jackson sitting next to him, resting himself on Mark’s shoulder.

“Why are you prying?” He questions.

“What prying? We’re roommates, Mark. We share everything.”

“No we don’t, now shoo.” He says, pushing the younger male off his shoulder. “You’re heavy, man.” Jackson settles on their living room couch, grabbing a throw pillow into his hold. “Is this still about Jinyoung?” He asks slowly, an attempt to be nonchalant.

 

“Somewhat,” Mark answers, closing the lid of his laptop and proceeding to stretch out his shoulders. 

 

“Do you like him?” The younger male asks, a bit more cautious this time, eyes observing every movement that Mark makes. Except Mark doesn’t answer him, doesn’t admit to anything, doesn’t refute anything. He takes in the adverdent gaze, grip on the pillow tightening. “You like him,” he says, not a question this time. A statement.

 

Mark, as always, doesn’t say yes—doesn’t say no.

  
  
  
  
  
  


They fall asleep on the couch that night, hands clasped in one anothers. There’s a dull ache in Mark’s shoulder from how Jackson rests his head on it but he decides that it’s the least of his problems. He lets his mind wander aimlessly as he recalls vague memories—ones from too long ago, ones that were still clear as day. He thinks to the days before he knew Jackson and to the days before he met Jinyoung. They seem distant as well, blurry and speckled like old damaged film. 

 

“I think I like him, Jia-er.” He says softly. 

 

Jackson doesn’t answer him, softly breathing as he navigates through Dream World. Mark untangles their interlocked hands, reaching up to brush Jackson’s fringe back. “I think I love him.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


Mark digs up his old books, ones from over ten years ago when he was still attending Chinese school on Saturdays, and rummages until he finds his battered copy of  _ Zhuang-zi _ . The pages are yellowed with folded pages here and there but Mark is overwhelmed all the same. He flips through the index with trembling hands, before searching here and there.

 

_ “不知周也,”  _ he mutters repeatedly. “ _ 不知周也。” _

 

The pages flutter underneath his fingertips as he searches impatiently, missing pages here and there as he turns the pages with too much force.

 

_ “不知周也。俄然覺，則戚戚然周也。” _

  
  
  
  
  
  


Jinyoung opens his eyes at 7:03 in the morning, alarm sounding off next to his pillow. It’s another song that he doesn’t know the title of, but one that he knows Jaebum liked. He shuts it off tiredly, throwing the phone back onto his bed. He presses his face into his hands, gathering his thoughts. Jinyoung doesn’t remember what he dreams of that night or if he had dreamt at all. But he figures it’s unimportant, as all dreams are, fading away from the conscious with time. 

  
  
  
  
  


Jinyoung finds Mark at 8:16 in the morning, curled up asleep outside his apartment door with a book in his arms. He lowers himself to Mark’s level, taking in the sight in the quietness of the morning, suddenly too aware of the silence that they’re in. It’s always like this with Mark, zoning in and out of focus as his senses refuse to take in the world.

 

He glances at the tattered book, something he knows that Jaebum would’ve taken a fond liking to, and the red bookmark that pokes out from the pages. It matches the red of Mark’s hair—fiery, determined. Jinyoung pulls the book out of the older male’s hold, settling himself on the floor as he flips it to the marked page. He doesn’t understand the most of it, only taking in the scattered hanja and english words that he’s learned in the past. But it’s the very bits and pieces that he strings together that Jinyoung knows exactly what work it is. He traces the printed words on the page, a familiar hollowness that fills him growing with every breath. He withholds the stinging feeling in his nose, throat closing up the same moment he forces his eyes close. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ 昔者莊周夢為胡蝶，栩栩然胡蝶也，自喻適志與。 _

 

_ Once, Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly, a butterfly flitting and fluttering about, happy with himself and doing as he pleased.  _

  
  


_ 不知周也。 _

 

_ He didn't know that he was Zhuang Zhou. _

  
  


_ 俄然覺，則蘧蘧然周也。不知周之夢為胡蝶與，胡蝶之夢為周與。 _

 

_ Suddenly he woke up and there he was, solid and unmistakable Zhuang Zhou. But he didn't know if he was Zhuang Zhou who had dreamt he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming that he was Zhuang Zhou.  _

  
  


_ 周與胡蝶，則必有分矣。此之謂物化。 _

 

_ Between Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly there must be some distinction! This is called the Transformation of Things.  _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Mark wakes up at 8:24, shoulders aching and numb. The lights of the corridor above head cast light shadows upon the floor, and Mark can’t see Jinyoung’s face clearly with the way the shadows envelope them. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Jackson wakes at 9:15 from dreams of worlds beyond him, taking twist and turns as the maze shifts with every step. He opens his eyes blearily at the empty space next to him. The wind billows from the opened window, curtains fluttering softly. He stares vaguely at the ceiling, taking in the cracks here and there. 

  
_ It’s breaking, _ he thinks,  _ just like them. _


End file.
